


one on shore.

by HerringTable



Category: Treasure Island - Lavery
Genre: Background Jim/Silver I suppose, Based off the National Theatre production, Blood and Injury, Female Doctor Livesey, Female Jim Hawkins, Gen, Manipulative Relationship, National Theatre - Freeform, Pirates, Possessive Behavior, implied PTSD, incredibly niche fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerringTable/pseuds/HerringTable
Summary: She will go with them. Lord knows they’ll need her.After all, girls need adventures too.Doctor Livesey before, during and after the events of Treasure Island.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the National Theatre’s 2015 streamed production, where ‘Jim’ was played by Patsy Ferran and Livesey by Alexandra Maher.
> 
> TW: Emetophobia.

It’s an open secret, really. Who she is. What she is. All proper English towns have their eccentricities, and if Black Cove’s is _a woman doctor in breeches_ who just so happens to be terribly good at what she does thank you very much, then so be it. 

She goes striding through town in her male garb - red, bold, make them look, she’s not hiding away - and pays little heed to any whispers. They are few and far between these days, and the whisperers soon learn that their gossip marks them out as new in town. The old lot, the established residents, have had their maladies eased by her too many times to care about a matter so trifling as _gender_.

(One of her fiercest defenders is a grandmother of eight, who is convinced that Livesey snatched her youngest grandchild from the jaws of death. The woman walks with two canes and possesses maybe half a dozen teeth in her head, but Trelawney reports that he has seen her give one rascal all kinds of hell for an obtuse remark.)

She is rarely called by her first name nowadays. ‘Livesey’ has become everything - first name, last name, title, curse, herald. It takes her a moment to react even now when someone says _Diana._

* * *

He proposes, twice. She turns him down, twice.

The first time is when she’s just started her practice and money is scarce, her pockets twisted and threadbare from searching them so often. This town has not yet learnt to trust this strange woman doctor, and those who do are so poor themselves that it feels like theft to charge them the usual amount. 

They’ve known of each other for years by this point, but when she runs into him in the street one cold, cruel morning, he takes one look at her hollowed cheeks and dark-circled eyes, this simple man who has never known struggle in all his life, and she can see him make a decision there and then - she can read him like a book, every process writ large and legible in his face. It takes less than a day more for him to visit her chilly little practice with a clean coat and a rehearsed speech and proceeds to accept her refusal so graciously that she feels half ashamed of herself.

Many great friendships have been terminated by such proposals. This begins with one.

The second time he proposes is when they return from that damned island, their pockets now heavy and jingling and she knows that if she doesn’t give it up now, this doctoring of hers, she won’t get another chance. They’re packing their things to leave, their final minutes on board Hispaniola and it’s like an hourglass running down, fast approaching the moment they step back on English soil and life will alter, forever.

He stands fidgeting in the doorway, sunburnt and scratched and almost deflated from their trials. Even his powdered wig seems to droop; “We could still do it, you know.” He says, his voice takes quite a different tone when he’s not boasting. “It’s not too late, Livesey. You and I. It’d all be very respectable.”

There are no romantic overtures here - he has said repeatedly that they would live a fine life as a pair of bachelors, with whiskey and tobacco - it’s an escape route, pure and simple. _Give up this ludicrous practice,_ he sounds so like her maiden aunts sometimes, squawking at her at every family gathering like that accursed parrot, _come and live with me, put on a petticoat and be respectable and your life will be easy and comfortable and safe and, and…_

Dull. It would all be terribly dull and that’s why he’s only half serious when he proposes.

But he _is_ half serious. The difference between him and her aunts is that if she did accept, he’d never mention it again. Never crow about this victory, brag that he was the one who done it, who tamed the strange, striding Doctor Livesey. He hasn’t a grain of sense, that’s true, but he hasn’t a grain of malice either, which sets him above so many of the men she’s met.

He proposes twice. He only proposes twice.

* * *

She likes this inn a lot. It’s populated by so many oddities of an evening that she rarely feels out of place. She likes feeling useful instead, when Trelawney inevitably makes an ass of himself and needs rescuing. She likes that the wizened landlady produces a generous brandy for her without asking and makes a show of it being purely _medicinal_ (it’s not, it’s really not). She likes that she can walk through the door on particularly rowdy nights to a glorious roared greeting from all assembled of _Liveseyyyy!_

It’s her theatre, her entertainment, seeing these townsfolk at their most open (and loud). She’s happy to stand back, nurse her drink and watch Trelawney hold court, reeling off one of his juvenile imitations, populating an anecdote with voices. An inn on a busy night is as far away one can get from sitting quietly beside a deathbed, soothing and reassuring and administering what comforts a doctor can as their patient slips away.

When she’s introduced to Jemima Hawkins, small and angular even for a child of that age, newly orphaned and come to live with her grandmother, she feels this spark of something - recognition, perhaps? This child with her loose clothes and dark, intelligent eyes that see everything. A child with common sense and a wren-like courage to defend her. And she reads! The girl practically devours any piece of writing that you give her.

Good sense tells Livesey that she should keep her distance. The last thing this town needs is another woman in breeches and in this instance, it could be contagious. But Jemima - Jim, Hawkins is bright as anything, Jim Hawkins can handle blood and vomit (and worse) without swooning, and the potential of an assistant is difficult to ignore.

But then life intervenes - intercepts, more like. One night there’s talk of pirates and a map and treasure and Trelawney goes dancing across the room with glee and suddenly - suddenly she hears herself saying she will go with them.

She will go with them. Lord knows they’ll need her.

Any good ship needs a ship’s doctor. Trelawney needs someone to stop him wandering into mortal peril. And Jim needs - Jim will need better shoes, she corrects, hurrying around her rooms, flinging shirts and books and equipment into the expectant trunk. Her second best shoes will be perfect, she lunges for them, and reminds herself that she hardly ever wears them anyway. 

After all, she tells herself as she slams her trunk shut and takes a final look around her lodgings, girls need adventures too.

* * *

Livesey notices that the cook with two names on ship and Lord knows how many more off it, looks at Jim for a little too long.

If Trelawney is there for all to read, then this cook, Silver, has drawn down the shutters, obscuring everything. When he comes to Livesey for something for his leg, the phantom pain that sometimes whispers around the stump, he is polite. Too polite and through the fog of her nausea she suspects that he is mocking her with manners. But there’s no time to dwell on this as she retches and dives for the bucket again. The cook watches and laughs, too loud, too harsh, and jests that he sometimes has that effect on people. As he rubs her back she can feel him shaking with mirth.

 _Landlubber._ It’s so embarrassing.

Worse, he takes young Jim under his wing. Jim, with eyes like saucers as she falls into step with this one-legged man, hanging on his every word. Whenever Livesey’s strong enough to venture from her quarters to check on them, Jim is pleased to see her, has things to say, and Silver is always _there_ , like some loitering shadow, louche and relaxed, catlike in the way he holds himself, even one limb down. And cool as you please. _Can we ‘elp you Doctor? Feelin’ better are yer?_

Livesey feels her face burn, like she’s walked in on something intimate and private. Although they’re never touching, not that she sees, there’s this closeness between them that can’t be ignored, like an invisible thread that keeps them in orbit around each other.

One night she clambers up to the deck for some air. The skies are clear and scattered with stars and the sight temporarily distracts her from her sickness. A great embroidered quilt of science and mythology, together. Quite the spectacle.

And then she spots them, inevitably. Jim. And Silver, of course. Sat side by side. Talking together. Silver pointing upwards, picking out constellations, his sentences punctuated with occasional barks of laughter. Jim keeps stealing glances at the man when she thinks he isn’t looking with a tenderness beyond her years and Livesey knows in that moment that her young assistant will never be so. There is too much of the adventurer in Jim Hawkins for a life like that. There is far, far too much of it in Long John Silver.

She tears her gaze away and heads back below. Livesey can’t shake the feeling, maybe it’s the seasickness, that this won’t end well. Why, why, _why,_ couldn’t Jim’s head have been first turned by some harmless lad in Black Cove, some farmer’s son, someone her age, someone not half as clever?

Her head spins horribly, fatigue spotting at her vision, as she slumps back to her quarters. Don’t be _ridiculous_ , her sensible ruling side chides her. Silver is just a man and Jim’s taken on a hero that’s all, as all boys of an age are wont to do. 

Girl, _girl_ , Jim is a _girl_ , Livesey! She curses herself. Jim is a girl, for Heaven’s sake!

She retreats to bed, pulls her knees up to her chest and wills this great swaying vessel to just be _still_ . She will have to have a word. Lord help her, she will have to have _a word_.

* * *

It is mortifying!

It so often is when she has to talk about… these things, with children who were orphaned before their mothers had the chance to tell them instead. Her neck aches, tense with the embarrassment of it all and Jim, oh poor Jim, stares resolutely at the ceiling and ‘yeps’ and ‘nopes’ throughout in a very tight tone that suggests she could cheerfully murder Livesey at this moment. Jim practically flees when dismissed, back to the galley, back to her clever, sarcastic master, who would never dream of putting her through such agonies...

But it is done and the map must be Livesey’s priority now. She can keep that safe at least. She has roamed this ship on the calmer days, moving it from spot to spot. The latest, and she’s rather proud of this one, is right at the bottom of the barrel of apples in the store.

Occasionally, if she dares, she spirits it back to her cabin, tucked inside her waistcoat beside her racing heart, and pours over it as the candle burns down to a stub, memorising the anatomy of the island, convinced there is something she’s missed. Like if she studies it long enough some secret will reveal itself to her. That terrible verse on the other side - are the errors some kind of code? She traces the thick black lines that mark the coast with a fingertip, turning it and searching and trying not to think about how many men have died for this map, this _treasure_. Many more than the two she knows of.

* * *

She fails Jim. Completely, utterly and oh, _repeatedly,_ and too much is going wrong and she longs miserably for home, but home would mean facing Mrs Hawkins and admitting, I failed you, both of you and I can’t make this right, I’m so sorry.

After Smollett has passed, her hands still stained with his blood, Silver returns, and like a sea storm all his sound and fury has abated into the lulling quiet of an indisputable ultimatum. 

“Give me the map, Doctor.” His voice is low and deliberate and insidious. She cannot recall a man ever speaking directly, specifically to her this way and she does not like it one single bit. “Just give me the map and I will let you walk away, you have my word.”

His word, his word indeed! His word is worthless, his word has condemned Anderson and Ruth and Smollett, and it strikes her then that all of this - the violence, the deaths - has all been over this filthy oiled scrap. Didn’t she think herself clever, spiriting it away to its hiding places, didn’t she think herself so terribly important, the great Doctor Livesey, smartest fellow aboard. And for _what_.

So she could be right. As usual. An itchy feeling of guilt pricks at her skin.

(“Just give him what he wants, Livesey.” Smollett hisses as she soothes and reassures as much as she can as the crimson creeps further and further across the pale of his uniform, “Give him the map, and you can still save her.” His eyes roll, he’s fading fast by this point and it would be insensitive to ask if he means the ship or Jim.)

But Jim has vanished, abandoned them. Likely fled to her beloved scoundrel’s side, oh hang, _hang_ that girl!

Unless. A thought. Unless… it’s a small, fool’s hope but Jim is, and always has been, _clever_. They’ve always known that. It will take more than one man to stop Jim Hawkins’ cleverness.

So Livesey gives Silver the map. In her outstretched arm, as far as she can keep away from him and his searching eyes and there’s a gasped _no!_ from the squire and Silver is practically purring as his fingers close around it.

At gun and sword point his crew takes away their supplies, their gunpowder, all their water and he calls that a kindness; that they can slowly starve instead, and turns them out into the steaming marshland that takes up a segment of the isle.

“Off you go.” He quips as they shuffle away, a miserable, broken bunch “All the best of luck, shipmates. Oh, and, uh - Diana?”

It hits her like a pistol shot - crack, right there, middle of her back and knocks every other thought from her head. How on Earth did he find out? For a moment, fury rushes through every vein. Who told him? More importantly, how _dare_ he?

“What shall I tell the girl?” He asks, and now he really is mocking her. Oh, she could kill him right now if he wasn’t flanked by his monstrous crew, there is anger enough in her bones to do it.

She takes a breath, her voice must not shake, she must not let it show that her own name is a weapon for him to use against her.

“Tell Jim,” She lets it hang in the air for a moment, “whatever you like, Mr Silver. After all, you usually do.” Then she turns hard on her heel and follows the others, but there is a flicker of hope alive in her belly and she tries hard not to let it show in a lightness of her step.

Because when she says Jim’s name, something remarkable happens. There’s this flicker of sorts in Silver’s eyes, a stumble maybe, and it’s like the shutters have finally cracked, one thin beam of light filtering in to illuminate that John Silver has one weakness, and they have one hope and it is the same thing.

These are no calm waters. This is merely the eye of the hurricane.

* * *

They follow the feral boy through the labyrinth of caves. Gunn is an extraordinary case study, abandoned for three years, at such a formative age, and the effects it has had on him, physical and mental, are fascinating! She aches to make notes on his behaviour, the debates he holds with his own muddled brain, the way he traverses on all fours like some wild animal.

He seems to navigate instinctually, dashing down paths without hesitation. They follow - they have lost too much to afford to challenge him now. The boy has a plan, and as wild and mad as he seems, it may still work.

She is tired. She cannot remember ever being this tired. Her muscles ache, her throat and mouth are sand-dry, her clothing seamed with dirt and there is a thin layer of grime all over her which she cannot wipe off without simply spreading it further. Smollett’s blood still sticks to her knuckles. But they must. Keep. Going.

Gunn wheels around suddenly, frantically hushing them, the sounds tumbling out of his mouth like a riotous crowd. They obey and fall silent in time to hear muffled voices nearby. There’s a vast rock wall to their left, with a crack large enough for a scrawny boy to scramble through perhaps, a little way up. And on the other side...

_Down ‘ere!_

_Come on, shift it!_

_Down the ladder, last AGAIN, s’not fair..._

If Jim is with them, if Jim has been as clever as Livesey hopes, this is their chance - perhaps their last chance - to rescue her. 

But they have _nothing_. Silver, in his ‘kindness’ has taken it all. All they have left is their wits. If they cannot fight these pirates, then they must trick them somehow. Frighten them away so there’s time to grab Jim and climb back to the surface. But this crew - devils and lawless people as they are - what do they fear?

Ben Gunn says “Something they can’t hurt, can’t hit. Can’t shoot.”

“Ghosts.” Ben Gunn offers.

Peasant nonsense to the highest degree, but the boy is right and these pirates are a superstitious bunch for all the good it does them.

So they’ll need a ghost. Livesey has heard enough melodramatic tales of hauntings from her patients to conjure up some script, but they need a voice for their ghost, someone the pirates won’t recognise - and it comes to her all at once. _Trelawney._ One of his ridiculous impersonations!

The squire is game in an instant. He stifles his excited yelps and drops his voice to try a chilling guttural rasp, his usual plumminess vanished. It is excellent, but is it enough? This isn’t one of their raucous evenings at the Admiral. They have only one chance to get this right.

Her heart thuds hard in her ears as she watches him shuffle to the crack in the wall, pirates scattered below, Silver triumphant, and brave Jim, bravest of them all, clinging to the ladder, disarmed by that wretched bird. 

Trelawney looks back at her. She nods. He turns to the crack and takes on the voice of their spectre.

_Who… steals… my….treasure._

And Silver stops dead.

* * *

Half a year passes. Her feet lead her back to the Admiral. The Hawkins women have decided to run the place for a little longer before they move on to better things. Jim has all manner of grand plans for a cottage and various comforts for her grandmother. But there is time for all that.

The customers for the night have gone staggering out into the dark, even the lodgers have turned in and Livesey’s nursing the last of her (not medicinal) brandy in a chair next to the smoldering fire. She’s warm and drowsy, even with the ugly, lingering threat in the back of her mind that she still has to walk home before she can sleep. Still - she’ll enjoy this as long as she can.

The Gunn boy, nearly unrecognisable these days (rest and company and regular food have done wonders for him, even if he still holds long conversations with himself) sweeps the floor and sings snatches of shanties quietly.

Her share of the treasure is still largely unspent. An old friend has written to her out of the blue, offering a partnership in Edinburgh, and she knows her island riches would help them set up most comfortably there.

 _It’s different,_ the friend writes, _not like your funny little town, you could walk anywhere dressed however you please and people would still see ten stranger things that morning. Cities are like that Livesey, and city life will suit you very well._

She can think of a dozen excuses that will keep her rooted here. She is established. She has her patients to consider. Besides, who will keep watch on Trelawney? Who will keep a weather eye on Jim and Ben? 

(She sometimes - not _too_ often, but as many times enough to cause concern - catches Jim staring out to sea with such a look of pure longing that it worries her.)

But the truth, which she is too sensible to ignore, is that she… she’s not _old_ , but certainly old _er,_ and the life she’s led has trodden the same routes so often that it’s worn a deep groove in her path that may be difficult to climb out of. And maybe it is a lonely life, but it’s hers. All hers.

“He’s a useful boy, that Ben.” Old Mrs Hawkins settles herself, joints and bones protesting, into the opposite chair and stares content into the glowing embers. Livesey had been deeply relieved to find the woman unaltered, as forthright and dependable as she had been when they first departed for Bristol. “Jemima’s been having ‘er bad dreams again.” She remarks, with the air of a woman commenting on the price of ale “I blame your island.”

Another reminder of her repeated failures. It’s a stab at her chest and she struggles to sit up, stammering out the apology that she will never get quite right, no matter how many times...

Mrs Hawkins waves a hand like she’s batting away a fly “Ah I don’t blame you Doctor. You bought ‘er back to me, just like you promised, an’ I’m grateful for that.” She smiles, but with a degree of melancholy. “That child has always been susceptible. Even when she was small. Any talk of monsters would set that imagination of hers spinning. Still, I s’pose it didn’t help with all them rough sorts coming in here with their tall tales. That Bill Bones in particular - him and all his business of one-legged men.”

 _Silver!_ The name crosses her mind before she can stop it, the cup nearly slips from her hand. “Oh.” She says, vaguely, and maybe she should comment how Billy Bones seems like a lifetime ago now, but-

“I know about the cook.”

Livesey’s heart plummets. Oh. Jim has told her that part after all.

“What was it, in the end? Between ‘em?” There’s something in her voice, a note, ever so faint, but a note of concern? Fear? Mrs Hawkins fixes Livesey with an eye that pins her to her seat and demands an answer.

“Hero worship.” Livesey says, quickly, and the sip of brandy goes down the wrong way and burns all the way down. “Nothing more.” She will tell herself it was hero worship, she will tell herself it was hero worship, she will tell herself it was hero worship, until she nearly convinces even herself. If she thinks about it for too long the anger will keep her awake forever.

“And ‘e let ‘er down.” Mrs Hawkins finishes, hope creeping into a practiced knowing tone.

“Yes.” She grabs that lifeline, clings to it. He did! He did that! Built up Jim’s trust, then dashed it all to pieces, the villain. There could be no friendship (‘love’, does cross her mind first but she banishes it immediately) between them after something like that.

A charred lump shifts in the grate. They’re both silent for a while. And ghosts do not exist, she reminds herself, and superstitions are for the ignorant, but if Livesey were so inclined, she can envision Long John Silver here now, summoned from the grave by the mere mention of him. Looming over her shoulder. Watching. _There._

_Doctor._

“She’s told me what ‘e _did_ ,” Mrs Hawkins continues, and the phantom is banished at once. “But I’ve never heard what ‘e was _like_. What was ‘e like, Doctor?”

What indeed. She thinks back to Jim’s deadly shadow. Tall, handsome in that unassuming way. His wild laugh. His distinctive step. Unafraid of any man alive, unruffled by hierarchy and too, too clever by far. Observant - he knew exactly where to strike all of them for maximum effect. _Diana_ , it still echoes in her head sometimes. Clever, clever man. After everything she can’t just dismiss him as a common thug. 

“He…” She takes a breath and it shudders inside her. “He was charming. Very intelligent, in his way. Very witty.” Her gaze drops to the fire. “And I think, somehow, he understood her better than many of us.”

“And he’s _dead._ ” Mrs Hawkins says firmly. The matter, the words otherwise say, is settled.

The groan and rush of earth giving away to that unstoppable metallic cascade. The floor beneath them giving a great tremor of impact. For one terrifying moment she thought it would take them into the darkness too and - and Jim screaming that devil’s name like her heart would break. It would not end well, she had always known that. The doctor has bad dreams of her own now.

Doctor Livesey knocks back the final dregs of her brandy, swallows hard her medicine and nods. “And he’s dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is complicated and comes in parts.
> 
> But she must go. It’s time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only ever meant to be a one chapter fic, so please excuse any ensuing historical goofs. 
> 
> Also Doctor Walker is definitely played by Oliver Chris.
> 
> TW: Mentions of medical procedures, implied PTSD, minor (offstage) character death

It takes her another handful of months in Black Cove before she grits her teeth, steels her nerve and writes  _ yes, why not, let’s do it _ and sends the letter off first thing in the morning, before she has time to reconsider, to Doctor James Walker of Edinburgh.

It’s been nearly eight years since she last saw her old friend. He has a wife now and a young child, which she can’t quite get her head around, since the last time she saw him he was still in the habit of getting very drunk at parties and singing unrepeatable songs on the stagger home. He’d been one of the first to accept her unusual occupation and always treated her like a brother. Eight years can cultivate a transformation in a man and it will be excellent to see Walker again, so she marks that down as another reason in the endeavour’s favour.

But the truth is -

The truth is complicated and comes in parts.

One part of the truth is that she secretly wants one more adventure. Not on a ship - Heavens, she could happily go the rest of her natural life without setting foot on another ship - but something, something that takes her out of the places she’s always known.

But not on a ship.

Edinburgh seems as good an option as any.

The truth is also when one morning a great bearded creature built like a mountain arrives at her practice. He dwarfs her, dwarfs pretty much everyone she’s ever met. Hell, he’d have made Killigrew look diminutive, and he addresses her directly; “You Doctor Livesey?”

She nods, frozen to the spot, wondering if it’s too late to grab a scalpel to defend herself. Pirate. He’s so obviously a pirate and he’s here, and  _ how did he find her? _

And he - 

Oh. 

He would like a remedy for a headache.

Too relieved to be embarrassed (her knees almost buckle), she sends him off with a poultice and the instruction to drink less grog (she knows full well this part will be ignored, but she’s done what she can).

One foot out the door, she asks him, “How did you, um. How did you know to come here?”

The pirate turns and grunts, “Asked ‘im down the way.” he waves a spade-like hand down the street. “Where be a doctor, says I. Up yonder, says he, Livesey’s the name.”

She follows the gesture and - ah. The blacksmith, her neighbour. Of course. And maybe one of the local farmers before that, because they all know where to find her and think nothing of directing anyone her way. Everybody knows her. Until now it’s been reassuring. Now it’s terrifying.

The giant pays and leaves quite cordially. Decent fellow, in his way, she thinks.

But she must go. It’s time to go. She writes her letter to Walker that afternoon.

* * *

Trelawney is outwardly supportive and insists on drinking toasts to her success that night at the inn, but it’s clear as always to see what he really thinks, that he doesn’t approve. Maybe he thought her improved fortunes would keep her in Black Cove, keep the life of the town consistent and orderly.

“Anyway, I don’t know this  _ Walker _ person,” He grumbles “He could be trying to con you, this partnership could be a ruse.”

Unlikely. If Walker had wanted to con her, he would have done it long before now, and besides it is a tremendous effort to lure someone the length of the isle for the sake of a pocketful of coins.

(Anyway, Walker doesn’t  _ know  _ yet. About the treasure. Her share of the treasure that left the island packed among her equipment. She will have to tell him at some point, but these things are far better discussed face to face.)

She recounts her tale of the giant and shakes her head at the memory, “I want to go somewhere where nobody knows me.” She says, “Not forever, mind you. Just for a bit. Besides, new challenges keep the mind sharp.”

“But you  _ will _ write to us.” Jim says, refilling their cups. There’s a threat buried in there somewhere.

“Of course I will.” She replies, with feeling.

Even with the new property they move into next week, the Hawkinses are not going far. Livesey has a suspicion that Jim is staying still for a reason. Like she’s waiting for something.

“You do know he’ll miss you.” Jim says, as they both watch Trelawney wade into another group’s debate without so much as a by your leave.

And she’ll miss him. She’ll miss  _ this, _ these habits, this life she’s built here. But if she doesn’t go now, she knows she’ll always wonder. One last adventure, get it out of her system. And maybe one day Jim will set out on another journey of her own. Livesey hopes so, anyway.

The Jim Hawkins who stands beside her now is a long way from the Jim Hawkins who helped her drag the lifeless body of Billy Bones out of the room all those months ago. She seems to walk a little taller, seems a little tougher, more solid. She’d protested for the longest time that she wasn’t a child anymore. Now Livesey finally believes it. There’s a confidence in Jim these days that she did not get from her grandmother.

“Girls need adventures too.” Jim says with a sly smile.

Livesey takes up the last half of her drink and holds it aloft, toasting her fellow adventurer. “Never a truer word said.”

* * *

Everything is soon packed. Most of her belongings are the tools of her trade, so there is very little else to make provision for. The keys are returned to the landlord, instructions left, the name of a good doctor the next town over shared about. She leaves a lot of her old clothing for Jim.

She will travel to Bristol and then get a coach heading north. The journey will take two weeks - that’s briefly a little overwhelming, but she sets that aside. Too late for going back now. The day she leaves is bright and fine, a breeze in the air and the blue sky scattered with scudding clouds. Perfect conditions for a voyage.

“Coach journeys are a terrible bore,” Trelawney says. He, Jim and Ben have all come to see her off. He hands her a small rectangular parcel, “This will help you pass the time, I hope.”

It’s a book. Curious, she lets the cover fall open and studies the first page  _ “Don Quixote?” _

“Another tale of adventure,” He explains “It is, I will admit, originally written by a foreigner, but if you can look past that, I’ll admit that Master Cervantes has a decent story in him.” He’s suddenly serious, “Best of luck, Livesey. I really do mean that.”

She wants to say that it’s not forever. For a second more she wants to stay. But nothing good ever came from looking back, so she bids farewell to them all and obliges the now impatient coachman. There’s an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach as she climbs aboard, even though she’s far from the sea.

Then they’re away, along the coast road and then up the hill away from the town square, away from these roads she’s trodden so many times. Away from everything she knows.

“Last glimpse of the cove.” One of the other travellers remarks, leaning toward the window as they crest the hill. She looks down at the book held so tight in her hands that her knuckles pale, and closes her eyes until she feels the coach round another corner.

Nothing good ever came from looking back.

* * *

She regrets leaving only from somewhere around York up until she jumps down from the coach in the middle of her destination city (already so busy and so  _ loud _ for this early in the day) and spots Walker and there’s this great rush of relief like, yes, this is right.

“Livesey! Most excellent fellow!” He greets her warmly, slapping her on the back and hurrying to claim her trunk as it’s unloaded. 

There’s a pretty young woman in his wake who hangs back, hands folded demurely before her - this must be the wife. Livesey could swear the woman looks nervous, but introductions are swiftly made, and Agnes Walker has clearly been primed already to address her as Livesey, just Livesey. 

Agnes won’t hear a  _ word _ of Livesey staying at an inn until she finds more permanent residence; “You must stay with us, I won’t allow you to refuse.” she says, with a surprising amount of spark, and like that it’s settled.

They talk non-stop all evening, the three of them, catching up on that great gap in each other’s lives. Well, mostly the Walker’s lives - her friend is a deeply unsatisfactory letter writer and it’s taken until now for her to be told that their son’s name is William. He is three.

(“You said to me that you wrote and told her when he was born!” Agnes cries, shooting an accusing look at her husband.

“I thought I had.” Walker grumbles in return.

“He didn’t,” Livesey says “But I do recall he sent me a lengthy missive on a patient he was treating at the time - the detail he went into about the ulcers was utterly staggering.”

Agnes looks resigned.)

Livesey finds herself asks question after question and begins to wonder if she’s being a nuisance already, but her hosts are only too happy to answer her, help her become a real citizen of this place. They tell her everything, the ways of this city, the things to beware, the things to look forward to. After a fine dinner they retire beside a crackling fire. Night has drawn in outside, along with a burst of rain.

“Welcome to Scotland.” Walker deadpans at the sound of the weather against the window pane.

“Won’t you tell us more about what you’ve been up to?” Agnes asks as they sit down together, “We long to hear more about your life!”

She’s a little tipsy and full of good food and very comfortable, so she smiles and waves a hand vaguely, “My life is a small one.” Livesey admits, “There is not much more to tell you of it.”

“Well I want to hear all about your grand voyage.” Walker says knowingly, “You mentioned in your letter you were off on one, then never another word about it!”

Yes, of course - she’d dashed a few final lines onto her last letter in Bristol and sent it off before boarding Hispaniola without a second thought.

She feels a little thrown by this request and instantly sobers. She’s heard the story a hundred times over herself; Jim is regularly asked to recount it to newcomers to Black Cove, but it feels like she left it behind there in that far away town.

“Well - it didn’t quite go to plan.” She says, covering her discomfort with a laugh.

But Walker persists, “It can’t have been so terrible. You lived to tell the tale.”

That’s true - and here she is as living proof. That’s certainly something.

The rain rattles against the window pane and the wind whistles outside the house, not one bit like the baking heat of the treasure island. She flicks through, rifling the pages in her head - Bones, Flint’s chest, Bristol, mutiny, Ben Gunn, gold and… death. A lot of death and danger.

“Very well,” She concedes, “But I will need a full glass.” Walker obliges and she leans back in her chair, summoning up the memories with a sip of the brandy. She looks into the fire and can see it all, one of their usual nights of drinking and conversation, punctuated by one Billy Bones. “Well it all began in Black Cove, at the Admiral Benbow Inn…” 

Jim tells this story far better - there’s more of the romantic nature in Jim and she captures the spirit of it better than Livesey ever could. But the Walkers are an excellent audience, quiet and attentive, and reacting appropriately at moments of high drama. Her friend’s wife in particular sits straight up in her chair, eyes shining, entranced by the story and even lets out a small cry of alarm when she reaches the part where she handed over the map to Long John Silver.

(Jim has also gotten a lot better with practice at smoothing over the parts she skips, the gaps now far less conspicuous, but Livesey has never mentioned that.)

She’s tried not to revisit this venture too much. There were things she’d rather not have seen and choices she’d rather have not had to make. Something in her throat sticks a little as she tells them how she could not save Smollett.

The fire burns low and the night creeps on. She offers them opportunities - you must want to retire for bed - but no, they insist, they must hear how it ends.

So she presses on. Tells them of their trickery, how Ben led them through the winding caves, how they created their counterfeit ghosts and finally how the island took its deadly revenge. When she reaches the end of the account they all sit in silence, broken only by the hiss of the fire and the storm outside. Truth be told she’s as stunned as they are, stunned at her own daring. And the risks they all took! It’s almost unthinkable now.

“What a remarkable story.” Agnes says breathlessly. “I could never be so brave..."

“We didn’t have much choice.” She admits “It was either that, or be killed.”

“I had no idea.” Walker says softly. “Livesey, you should have  _ said... _ ”

Despite everything, she realises she’s smiling. “Well. It’s all over now. I must confess that’s a large part of the reason I decided to come up here. A fresh start, that’s what I need.”

“Well we’re very glad to have you.” Agnes catches a glimpse of the clock and her face drops, “Goodness, is that the time? We’ve kept you talking for hours Livesey, you must be exhausted…”

“That must have been a great weight off your mind,” Walker says as he gets to his feet with a stretch, “To finally see that devil Silver dead before you.”

She stills, her gaze settled on the fire and it dawns on her for the first time that she never actually saw any of them dead. There was that almighty crash and then silence and they just -

They had all just assumed…

Like the ghost that had loomed over her shoulder at the Admiral, she can imagine Silver himself leaning in the doorway here, a dark, lingering presence in the Walker’s cosy home.

_ Go. Away, _ she wills, her grip tightening on the arm of the chair.

Her ghost smirks and melts away into the dark.

* * *

Edinburgh is certainly different from Black Cove. They quickly find a place suited to a practice, two floors and a mere fifteen minutes walk from Walker’s home. She takes the first floor (Walker’s established patients are largely in their later years) and soon they’re up and running.

They often have to go out to the less savoury parts of the city. Walker keeps a long blade concealed in a walking cane and a pistol in his bag, and Livesey soon follows his lead, keeping her own gun close to her at all times, particularly after her pocket is picked three times in the first month.

But he’s right. City life suits her. Every day is different. Here nobody knows her. Nobody cares what she is, there’s enough to worry about without taking that into consideration. She dines with the Walkers at least once a week. She rents a good set of rooms and her travelling companion, the knight errant, sits safely on the shelf like a relic.

She throws herself into her work. Attends births, attends deaths, lets blood, sets bones, stitches, doses. If Walker notices her hesitate and baulk when they’re called to carry out an amputation, he doesn’t comment on it.

Four years go by. Four years put themselves between her and the island.

Trelawney writes to her every month like clockwork, always with news, usually with some piece of gossip he was probably sworn to secrecy on. Jim writes often too - her letters sometimes focus a little to the left of what letters should, but they’re still a great comfort.

Then Jim’s grandmother suddenly passes one autumn and it nearly drags Livesey back to the cove, even through the foul weather that has struck the north. Agnes, more resolute than her delicate exterior would suggest, has to talk her into staying, at least until the spring, you could be killed on those roads, she says, and what good would that do your friends?

She learns to ignore every one-legged man in the street because of  _ course  _ it’s not him, it never is, don’t be stupid. He’s buried far away, with his precious treasure.

The squire goes to Bath one winter and comes back with a wife the next spring - the first Livesey hears of it is a letter from Jim, which extensively details repairs to the roof and a strange new guest with a false arm and Ben’s new job and a recent storm that dragged a great blackened tree trunk up from the water onto the sand and ends with a casual postscript of ‘By the way, Squire’s married.’ 

Amongst her spluttering incredulity at Jim’s order of priorities, she suddenly feels very, very far away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does she relish it too? The alarm in their eyes, their shock and awe that respectable people could be drawn into such things?
> 
> If so, this will make quite the epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with my unexpected part two, please excuse any ensuing historical errors. 
> 
> (Yes I do steal/respectfully borrow a line from Pirates of the Caribbean, and what of it)
> 
> TW: Blood, vague depictions of medical procedures, one very fleeting emetophobia mention, implied PTSD.

She’s woken with a start one night by an insistent and continuous knocking at the door.

“Go away.” She groans into the blankets. It’s cold, and bed is warm and it’s  _ late _ for Heaven’s sake,  _ what on Earth... _

The knocking persists, quite determined, until she eventually concedes with a great growl of annoyance, struggling into her banyan. She stomps to the door, flinging it open to find - nobody there. Until that is, she looks down and sees a boy of maybe six or seven years of age, a grubby child from the poorer end of a nearby street - she racks her brain,  _ Toby? Thomas? Thomas. _ \- stood fidgeting on the doorstep.

“Please Miss.” He mumbles “There’s someone in your shop - they’ve knocked the door down.”

It takes a minute to work its way through her sleep-fogged brain. “My - they - what?”

“Three big ones - they hit the door an’ the door broke, an’ then they dropped the other man down, an’ - an’ they said ‘here’s the doctor for you’ and then me Mam said to stop starin’ an’ come and get you.”

A break in. She suppresses a groan (it’s not Thomas’ fault and this way it avoids any nasty surprises in the morning), gives the lad a coin for his trouble and a few minutes later reluctantly sets out, dressed, pistol loaded inside her bag.

Her heart sinks when she sees the smashed lock, the door hanging ajar. Not long after they set up practice, one desperate soul had fought his way in for the opium - her drugs are kept inside a heavy locked trunk now. One touch of the door and it swings open silently before her. 

She checks Walker’s room first and finds it empty, bone cold and pitch dark.

Suddenly there’s a thud and a scrape from above that makes her freeze to the spot. Silently, she extracts the pistol from her bag, her heart hammering in her chest. First step of the stairs. Silence again. Maybe she imagined it.

Second step. Skip the third step, it creaks. Fourth step. Her foot slides a little on the fifth and her stomach jolts as she looks down at the dark smear across it. She doesn’t need to look too closely. Blood. And when she looks up again - blood on the wall, smeared from a handprint, muddy against the paint. She takes the rest of the steps with the softness of a shadow, until she sees weak lamplight filtering out from her upstairs room.

Oh God.  _ There’s someone in there.  _

They don’t know she’s there, they’re gasping in pain and muttering angrily to themselves. There is the squeak of something pushed across the floor. They’ve had break ins before, but Walker has always been with her and she curses herself for not going to fetch him first. She’s never had to face this alone.

This must be quick.

One hard kick - the door flies open, foot down, pistol aimed right at the intruder who flings up a hand in surrender.

“Friend!” The figure gasps in alarm, back pressed against the opposite wall. “Don’t shoot - friend!”

“Hogwash!” She snaps, because she recognises him in an instant. It’s been years and there are new lines in his face and his beard is longer, but you never forget the face of the man who bought you closest to death.

He recognises her a moment later. “Oh, wonderful.” He sneers, “It’s you.”

A chill envelopes every one of her bones and she wills herself not to scream. “You’re supposed to be dead!”

He stares at her, wide eyed and half desperate, “Are you going to kill me, Doctor? Finish what you started?” He nods to the pistol held tight in her hands. “Then do it.” He stumbles, half throws himself across the room and rests his forehead full against the barrel, a bundle of bandages raided from her supplies clutched in his hand,  _ “Do it.  _ Put a sinner out of his misery.”

“What are you doing here?” It’s then she spots his other hand clamped to his side - the dark stain on the torn shirt around it, the crimson leaking through his grip.

He sees her looking and the tension in his face lessens. He looks somehow embarrassed by the wound, and now she notices how pale he is. His false leg is absent, a discarded crutch by the wall her clue to his travelling here.

“I’m in need of a doctor.” He says, reluctantly, brow still resting on the gun.

In the years apart she’s built him up in her head as some kind of monster. The ghost that she’s seen in her head, lurking in the Walker’s house, loitering on corners, following in the dark, is bigger and uglier and more terrible than the injured pirate now sprawled on the floorboards in front of her.

Whatever his reason for being here tonight, it is becoming rapidly apparent that Long John Silver did not come to kill her.

She does a quick mental inventory and confirms that all her blades are in her bag, which she shall keep far, far away from him. She can practically hear her younger self screaming at her -  _ kill him, kill him, he’s right there, what are you waiting for, pull the trigger  _ \- as she lowers the gun. “What happened?”

“I had a little disagreement,” Is all he says, now staring sullenly at her feet. “And was dumped on your doorstep. When they said ‘Livesey’, I thought it was a coincidence, after all you’re very far from home.”

She does not dare move, “There’s a decent doctor far closer to the port.”

“You have a reputation around here,” Silver says, with some reluctance, “for not asking difficult questions.”

He’s not lying. With their proximity to Leith she’s treated some fierce, strange looking men and women. Ink on their arms and backs, rings in their ears, sand still in their boots and often paying in strange foreign coins that Walker despairs over.

“These are from China,” He groans, picking pieces out from where they’re scattered across his desk, “Livesey, I don’t know how you did things in Black Cove, but these are only accepted in  _ very specific places _ in this city. This one’s from Portugal, this the Indies and this - I don’t even know what language this is.” He’d joked once at dinner that perhaps her previous run in with pirates had rubbed off on her. Agnes had been scandalised on Livesey’s behalf, and Livesey had echoed the woman’s sentiments, mainly to cover that for a second she’d felt strangely proud of the accusation.

She does not have to help him, she thinks.  _ I do not have to do this. _

Then she thinks,  _ damn it all, yes I do actually.  _ There’s a little clean water left in the kettle, which she quickly fetches. At the end of the day, she is a doctor, she thinks, as she lights another lamp. This is her duty. 

Whatever happens to him afterwards is a different matter.

(There is also the inescapable fact nagging at the back of her mind that if she knowingly lets him die, puts her feet up and watches him bleed out, there is someone in particular who will never forgive her. There’s a heartbroken scream that still sometimes crops up in her nightmares, even after all this time.)

She ensures her bag (and gun) is far from his reach before slinging an arm under his. “Up. Come on, you’ve got to help me help you.”

Begrudgingly he does so, pressing up from the floor - if there was ever an opportunity for him to plunge a hidden knife deep into her heart, this is it, but it never comes - and she drops him unceremoniously onto the solid table she uses for treatments.

She unbuttons her sleeve and begins to roll it up towards her elbow, “Shirt off. Quickly now.”

A snicker, “Been a while since I’ve had a woman demand that of me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot.”

He affects a sulk and turns to let her inspect the wound, “Be nice to me Doctor, I’m dying.”

“Utterly ridiculous.” She mutters darkly, prodding at the offending injury, “This world has tried to kill you enough times already.” She steps back, “You’re not dying, Silver, more’s the pity.” It’s a nice cut - straight and shallow and looks new enough that if she’s quick they can stave off an infection. She’s helped men in far worse states than him.

Not to say he’s looking at all at his best. His ribs are visible in the manner of a person who has eaten, but not eaten particularly well for several days. He’s covered in scars already, some long healed without help, some tacked back together by far less capable hands than hers. His eyes are shadowed with fatigue and he leans in a manner that suggests he has been awake for far too long.

And he’s  _ here. _ She can’t quite process it. Regardless, she keeps an eye on him as she edges around the room, fetching the things she needs. 

He doesn’t return the gaze. “If you do decide to take this opportunity,” he says, attempting to sound like his old cocky self, “Keep it quiet, will you? Can’t be doing with folk knowing Long John was finally done in by such an appalling landlubber - you still bringing up your boots at every whiff of the sea? - ahhh!”

Alright, fine, maybe she does press down on the cut slightly harder than is strictly necessary with the cloth, but the yelp it produces from him as she cleans the cut makes her feel better.

“You’re going to need stitches.” She offers him the piece of wood from her kit, “Bite down on this.”

He waves it away with a sneer “I don’t need that.”

“Very well.” It is too late at night, and she is too old, and he has betrayed her too many times for her to bother to negotiate with him, “This will hurt, you’ve been warned.” She begins, squinting in the dim light as she makes the first neat stitches into the skin.

To his credit, he does not flinch. He tenses, and occasionally a hiss of pain escapes between his teeth, but he does not pull away. “I’ve been through worse.” He says, as if reading her thoughts.

Of course. “Your leg.”

“Passed out for that one.” He sounds almost proud of it. If he’s angling to tell the story, she’s not going to humour him. Besides, there are more important questions to ask right now.

“Are you going to tell me how you escaped the cave in?”

“Divine providence.” He sniffs “Or pure dumb - ow - luck. I was trapped when all that rock and treasure came down, but I wasn’t crushed. Had to dig my way through to a clear tunnel with my bare hands. Took a while and all. I tell you, I have never smelled anything as sweet as that first lungful of air when I got back to the surface.”

The thought of being buried down in those unsteady caves sends a shiver down her spine. “And how did you get off the island?”

“Passing rum runners took pity on me.” He smirks (or grimaces, one flows into the other), “How could they not - an old marooned hopper like myself?”

Old. He’s not that old. The rough and outdoor nature of pirate life has taken a toll on him, but he can scarcely be out of his thirties. She’d tried during their last encounter to pin down a vague age, based on his behaviour (more out of concern for his friendship with Jim), but it wasn’t easy. He’d plead his disability, lament himself as weaker to deceive anyone trying to get the measure of him, seem feeble and aged, and then other times he’d be like a far younger man, running on rage or excitement, whooping to the skies in a storm.

Half these pirates have adopted names of their own. Does he even  _ know _ his own birth date, she wonders.

“But it doesn’t matter,” He continues, “I got what I set out for - ah, gently now, I’m not a pincushion - and, as I was sayin’, I calls that a successful voyage.”

And men died, she thinks, disgust simmering in her stomach, “And was it all worth it? For whatever stash of coin you managed to scrape back with you?”

He laughs ruefully, a sound a thousand miles from his old barking cackle, “Not all treasure is silver and gold, Doctor. Me, I’ve done things to get back here you can never imagine, seen things that would strike you stone dead-”

She cuts him off with a scoff; “Oh please - I’m a doctor! Spare me the horror stories, I see more corpses in a week than you likely make in a year.” Finishing the final stitch, she ties off the thread. “There.”

He looks down at the stitches with interest, “Not half bad. Dressmaking’s loss really is your profession’s gain.”

“Don’t pick at it, I haven’t the energy to do it again.” She takes up a roll of bandage and throws it deftly into his hands, “Wrap that around you, it’ll protect it.”

He obeys and does a decent job of it, tucking in the end far too neatly for someone apparently unpracticed to the process. Then he finally relaxes. She watches as he slumps forward with a long exhale, hands gripping the edge of the table. He panicked, she realises with a jolt. He saw his own life bleeding onto the floor and he panicked.

“Thank you.” He finally says, quiet enough to miss it.

“I didn’t do it for you.” She blurts out, before quickly adding, “Besides, it  _ is _ my job.”

“And you’ll be paid.” He retorts. “Pass us that.”

He points and she notices the presence of a battered looking kit bag by the door. It’s suspiciously weighty when she picks it up and she turns to glare at him, “What’s in here?”

He looks affronted. “A fresh shirt, near the top - you are terribly paranoid Doctor, it’s a very unattractive trait.”

She opens the bag herself, and true to his word, a crumpled, but clean, shirt sits near the top. She passes it to him, saying; “I’m somewhat amazed you dared come back to Britain. You could have gone anywhere in the world, made your escape and nobody here would be any the wiser.”

“I did. You don’t think I’ve spent the last four years moping about on that island, do you?” He shakes his head, tugging the new shirt into place. “No, not me, I’ve been across the wor-”

There’s a sudden noise out in the street. Nothing ominous, the yell of a passing drunkard, but  _ now _ Silver flinches, remaining foot onto the floor, ready to flee.

“It’s alright,” She finds herself saying, “We get a lot of that around here. It’s harmless.”

He nods slowly in response, easing himself back down, trying to control the alarmed hitch of his breath into something more careless, “Anyway, I ain’t staying long. I head south tomorrow morning.”

“...Why?”

Now his gaze snaps back up, intense and unavoidable, “Take a wild bloody guess.”

Gripped with the sudden need to get away, she takes the basin of now red-tinged water and moves it to the nearby counter, tidying and setting things right and trying to forget what he’s just said.

“How is she, Doctor?” When Livesey ignores him, he persists; “My cabin girl. My Jim. How is she?”

“She is not yours.” She says firmly, winding up the bobbin of thread.

“But is she well? I’m not trying to be funny, I need to know. Is she alive, is she happy, is-” He falters “Is she wed?”

She leans heavily on the counter, aware of Silver’s eyes boring into the back of her head. “She’s alive. And well.” Well is an understatement. From all reports, Jim is thriving, but she wants to give him as little information as possible.

He chuckles with relief, “Good. Good. You know I knew she’d be alright, smart as paint that girl.”

“You were right in that respect.” She finally lets go of the counter edge and returns to her patient, pulling up a chair beside the table and dropping down into it. “Yes, she’s doing well enough for herself. She’s not married. Though I hear she’s had offers.” She can’t resist that bit and glances sideways at Silver in time to see the look of distress flash across his features. “But if she was, that would be no business of yours.”

His expression darkens “Jim is my business.”

“Jim is nobody’s business but her own.” She retorts sharply, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. If she looks at him now, her courage might fail her. “You’d do well to remember that.”

No, this is all too weird. She gets up again, for something to do, to ground her, opens the cabinet and rummages, finally landing on the bottle of whiskey she keeps hidden behind her anatomy books. She pours two generous measures and holds one out to Silver. “Here.”

He regards it warily, “Really?”   
  
She holds the cup out again, emphasising, “You’ve had a shock, it’ll do you good.”   
  
He snorts with laughter as he takes it from her, “Shock of my life seeing you come bursting in here, more like.”

Hmm. “Yes, well, it’s been an interesting evening for the both of us.”

They both sit and drink in silence. The drunkard outside shouts again but it’s faint, like he’s wandered a few streets over. Even further off there’s a bang of a slammed door, a dog's bark.

Silver breaks the quiet, “I did care about her.”

She makes a short and very unladylike sound of derision that echoes in the cup.

“I did, I swear.” He insists with some vehemence. There’s something defensive in the way his shoulders hunch. “I still do.” 

She stares at him, this strange, dangerous man, “So why come back now? What’s changed?”

He shrugs, his hand still lightly pressed to his wound, “I thought I could move on. Live without her. And I could, for a time.” He huffs a laugh, but it’s so clearly fake it’s almost absurd, “Why am I telling you all this?”

She doesn’t reply. She knows instinctively that if she speaks now she will never get the truth.

He appears to brace himself, and the next words come out in a rush, “Then I started to forget the sound of her voice. And that was more of an unappealing prospect than I expected.”

She looks down at the drink in her hands, “And what are you going to do if you do find her again? If she even  _ wants _ to see you? And be honest, I’m too old for any more of your nonsense.”   


After a second or two, he turns and meets her eye, “I’m going to apologise.”

That was not what she expected. 

But he continues; “I don’t regret anything I did to your lot. Nothing personal, but I’d do it all again tomorrow if it meant me getting what I wanted. But her? I have always regretted how things ended with her.”

“You know,” She says after a moment, “I think that’s the first thing you’ve said tonight that I’ve actually believed.”

“Long John Silver’s got a conscience on him.” He replies, a degree of his old pride creeping back in, “People are always so surprised.” He sighs heavily. “Nah, she’s - she’s different. Good. A good person. And honest and brave. She didn’t learn any of that from me.” He clears his throat and his expression clouds, guarded once more. “I sail from Leith tomorrow. I need my closure and so does she.”

Livesey drains the remainder of her drink and gets to her feet, “Well I’m afraid you and your closure are going to have to wait.”

He stiffens, “Why? Gallows at dawn, is it?”

Now she really does lose her patience, “No you fool, you’re in no fit state to leave this room. You need to rest. You’ve lost a considerable amount of blood, much of which is now all over my stairs, I’ll thank you.”

He watches her carefully, “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go and clean up, before it stains and scares all of my patients away.” She takes a blanket from the cupboard and points to the chair by the window that she’s fallen asleep in more times than she cares to remember, “And you’re going to get some rest.”

He hops across, using the furniture as a support, “And then? In the morning?” The threat of fetching officers to haul him away hangs, unspoken in the air.

She tosses the bundled blanket into his stomach with more force than is probably necessary, “Go to sleep, Mr Silver.”

“Aye-aye sir.” He sneers, settling into the chair. “Oi. Oi, Livesey!” he hails after her as she makes to leave.

She stops in the doorway and grits her teeth. “What now?!”

He gestures vaguely to himself, the wound; “Why are you doing all this?”

Good question. She shakes her head, “Lord help me, I wish I knew.”

He laughs, and that sounds far more like how she remembers. The sound follows her out as she takes the last of the clean water and her bag, and makes a start on the stairs. There’s a woman who comes in to clean with a reasonably strong stomach, but the handprints may unnerve even her somewhat. Livesey will need to warn her when she gets here, actually, that she has a man in, a patient -  _ what are you THINKING, Livesey?! _

This is Long John Silver. This is a dangerous pirate who tried to kill you, and Trelawney, and probably Jim too, for all his talk of care. And you just extended his worthless life.

She has her pistol. Her fingers wrap around the grip. She could go back in there right now and do it whilst he sleeps, claim it was self defense from a renowned and villainous pirate, and - 

And make herself no better than he? Go against all she’s ever sworn to? Her heart sinks as she shoves it back in the bag and takes up the scrubbing brush. No. That’s not her. It never has been, it never will be.

She’s told her story a few more times since she first arrived here. Visiting guests of the Walkers find it fascinating. She thinks of Jim in her prosperous new inn, perched on the bar and relaying her tale of adventure to an enraptured crowd. Does she relish it too? The alarm in their eyes, their shock and awe that respectable people could be drawn into such things?

If so, this will make quite the epilogue.

The scrubbing brush in her hand feels heavy, as does her head. The adrenaline is ebbing away now and the place is silent, save for the quiet, steady motion of her work. The scratch of the brush dissolves slowly into the crash of waves and her dreams are full of that wretched, violent sea.

* * *

When she wakes the next morning her neck feels bent at an awkward angle and her bones ache from the cold. Must be time to get up. There’ll be lots to do today. This kind of weather prompts all manner of complaints.

_ I had a most curious dream, _ she thinks, _ that Long John Silver was in Edinburgh. And for one moment he was honest. Nearly honest. As honest as he is capable of being. _

She goes to rub the sleep from her eyes. Except she can’t - her hands stop inches from her face.

What?

Her eyes snap open. She’s still sat sprawled on the stairs of the practice, a half-cleared bloody handprint on the wall above her. A chilly draught sneaks in from the broken door below and the passage is lit with the weak grey sunlight. Both her wrists are bound tight to the balustrades with the torn remains of, what she soon recognises as, Silver’s bloodied shirt.

She pulls sharply, but the bounds hold and panic flares in her stomach.

_ No no no no no no no no. _

At the bottom of the stairs the door swings and bangs on the frame in the wind. A sudden thought - her bag is within reach, of her leg, but... She kicks once, twice at the bag and it falls open - her pistol’s gone. 

She wishes she could be surprised.

“Oh, REALLY?” She groans. “Really?! Damn you Silver! Damn you!” She pulls again, but there’s no give. Silver knew what he was doing and did not wish to be followed.

The door bangs again, and from downstairs she hears Walker’s worried shout; “Livesey? Livesey, are you here? What’s happened to the door?”

Thank God. “Here - up here!”

There’s the rapid thud of Walker’s feet on the steps and he joins her, aghast; “Where did this blood come from? Christ, Livesey, have we been robbed?”

The blade is produced from his cane, quickly slicing through the knots. Livesey scrambles to her feet, abandoning Walker on the stairs, and hurls herself back into her room. A quick glance about tells her the bottle of whiskey is gone with him too. 

But in the middle of the table there’s a small cloth bag, placed too deliberately to be left by mistake. It weighs heavy when she picks it up, and when she tilts it in her hand there’s the distinct clink of coins. When she opens it, the morning light catches on an unmistakable glint of solid gold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She already feels like she’s let Smollett down once, and to refuse to face this would be an even greater injustice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussed minor character death, grief, two incredibly fleeting mentions of blood.

They’re back in Bristol upon their return from the island and gathering their bearings when Trelawney says to her; “You know you could always just  _ write _ to his wife - there would be nothing improper about that, many a woman has heard the news of her loss in that way.”

He’s right, but it simply doesn’t feel just. She already feels like she’s let Smollett down once, and to refuse to face this would be an even greater injustice, so she comes back with them to Black Cove for less than a day (it feels very important to see Jim safely home, it’s the least she can do to even halfway fulfil her promise), hardly glances at the sea, dozes for maybe two hours in a chair at the Benbow and doesn’t make it home before heading off again.

She’s in Bath by the next morning, and here her apparel draws more looks and whispers. For once she doesn’t mind - it’s a distraction from the nervousness wearing away at her, the repeated on-the-road rehearsals in her head of what she’s going to say. She’s brought Smollett’s things along from the ship, and of course, his share of the treasure. His records provide her with an address and she soon arrives into one of the better off avenues.

It’s the first time in weeks they’ve all been parted from each other and more than once a thought will cross her mind - some interesting sight to point out to Jim, or a thought for the future to tell Trelawney - and she’ll glance over her shoulder to tell them, only to remember that they’re not there.

The coach stops outside a respectable looking house. A butler with a pinched face and a judgemental air about him answers the door, and when Livesey asks if Mrs Smollett is at home he raises his wiry brows with the air of someone undergoing great trials to find out. He creaks off to inquire, while she loiters on the step. This place is a different world from the noise and smoke of Bristol. People come here to take the waters and be seen by polite society. She muses that she probably should have cleaned her shoes.

A movement at the door catches her attention and she turns, polite, ready to say - but the address dies in her throat, as she instead spots a boy of maybe three years of age peeping shyly around the door at her, round faced and fair haired.

She inclines her head in a mock bow. “Good day to you young man.”

The boy giggles, seemingly finding her presence amusing, before there’s an admonishing cry of; “Henry Smollett!” and a harassed-looking nursemaid appears behind him, scooping him up under his arms.

“My apologies, sir!” Her attention is fully committed to the wiggling boy in her grip, “if I’ve told Ashby once about leaving this door open, I’ve told ‘im a hundred times…” She retreats into the house, the child now protesting his capture with outraged squawks, and Livesey feels like a vast chasm has suddenly opened up right in front of her.

Smollett had a  _ son. _ She never knew, he never said, and suddenly her task feels twenty times greater and she thinks  _ I can’t do this, _ and turns to leave, but suddenly the servant returns. 

Before she can make her excuses she’s ushered through to a handsome drawing room. She’s left alone again and finds herself pacing, looking around for distraction. Perched on one of the ledges is a great curved shell, spiralling to a point and bigger than her hand. A fine table globe inhabits a far corner. For something to occupy her, she slowly rotates it, her fingertips skimming across the Atlantic ocean, then south west - is their island marked on here?

A noise from the hall alerts her and she quickly steps back from the orb as the butler returns with a lady as light haired as the child; “Doctor Livesey for you...”

“I’m sorry you’ve had to wait, sir - oh!” The newcomer collects herself, stopping suddenly in her tracks as Livesey turns, “Forgive me, when Ashby said ‘Doctor’, I assumed…”

“Please, don’t worry. Believe me, you are not the first.” She bows, “Doctor Diana Livesey, at your service.”

“Rebecca Smollett.” She’s polite, but a dent of confusion marks her brow as she looks at her visitor. She’s very pretty in an open, approachable sort of way, with an air of someone who can’t be fooled easily, “Please - do sit down.”

Livesey obliges, noting how at ease Mrs Smollett looks - not only in her house, but here in general, in Bath. The well-dressed and respectable woman sat across from her is the very image of what Livesey’s parents had once wished for her to be.

“So tell me,” She says, sitting perfectly straight, “what warrants this visit, Doctor?”

Livesey clasps her hands together to stop them fidgeting, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Mrs Smollett’s smile drops a little, but she forces a chuckle, “Heavens. That’s never reassuring to hear from a doctor. What’s happened?”

“I…” The words stop in her throat, blocked, held back.

Mrs Smollett’s confusion gives way to sympathy; “Would you like something to drink?” She gestures back towards the hall, “I can call for some tea…”

“No!” She composes herself, “Thank you. That’s very kind, but… I suspect that once you hear what I’ve come to say, you won’t want me in your home for much longer.” She looks down at her lap. It’s a coward’s way out, but at least… she’s  _ there. _ That has to count for something. “It’s about your husband. The captain.”

A silence falls between them and Livesey knows that the woman is fully aware of what this means. It’s a radiating, heavy silence.

“He’s dead, isn’t he.”

Silence again and Livesey can barely bring herself to look up, because the  _ relief _ she feels that Rebecca Smollett has said it, and saved her from having to, is absolutely shameful.

“I’m sorry.” She finally dares look, only to see the other woman still sitting straight, but oh, her  _ face - _ the look in her eyes has taken on a dullness, they’re unfocused on some vague spot on the far wall.

“I always worried when he went away to sea.” She says, in a voice that’s steady, too, too steady, too careful, too composed. “Every time. Even when he told me not to, that there was nothing for me to fear, I still worried most terribly.” She takes in a deep breath and her eyes finally focus on Livesey; “How did it happen?”

“He was killed by a pirate, a villain and a scoundrel, who I can assure you, has since also died,” She will not give details, she cannot, she still sees it sometimes when she shuts her eyes, still remembers the blood drying on her hands that she had no chance to wash off until much, much later, “Your husband gave his life protecting my associates and me. He was honourable to the last.”

“Too honourable, the fool.” She presses a hand to her mouth and her eyes flutter shut briefly. “You were there when he passed?”

“I was. I’m sorry I could not save him.”

The captain’s wife swallows hard and forces a nod, “But he was not alone - that is some comfort.”

Somewhere on the floor above there’s a muffled  _ thumpthumpthumpthump _ of small running feet, and Henry Smollett crows in defiance as he eludes his nurse again.

Livesey finds herself blurting out; “There was nothing I could do-”

“I believe you.”

Does she want her to leave so she can weep in private? It’s difficult to tell. This still, silent grief is somehow worse than weeping.

Livesey takes a breath to steady herself. “I have bought you his belongings,” she adds, “as well as his share of the treasure-”

“Treasure?” Mrs Smollett starts at this and shakes her head, “No, that can’t be right, Alexander always said he wanted nothing to do with treasure voyages.”

The twist of guilt pulls in Livesey’s chest, “He didn’t know - not at first. We thought that if we kept the nature of the voyage a secret from everyone, it would be safer for all involved.”

“Well you were clearly mistaken.” She replies, as quickly as it can be said, as if she doesn’t want the chance to stop herself.

The faces of all they lost, on both sides, flicker through her mind, “Yes. Yes we were.”

“Take it with you,” Mrs Smollett sweeps to her feet, causing Livesey to stumble a little as she too stands, “I don’t want it. It would be disgusting to spoil myself with the riches that killed my husband.”

“Be sensible.” It comes out sharper than she intended, and she quickly softens her tone, “Use it for good - your child needs to be cared for.”

“With a pirate hoard?” She cries, “My husband abhorred treasure. He would never have accepted it.”   


Livesey wants to say this isn’t the time for principles, but that in itself doesn’t sound right - but even principles must bend in times like these. She knows she is not made for places like this, with their social rules and etiquette, and she suddenly longs for home. She takes a cautious step forward and lowers her voice; “Then please think of it as his rightly-earned wage. Earned going above and beyond the call of duty.”

After another stretch of silence, Mrs Smollet clears her throat, squares her shoulders; “Are you married, Doctor?” It’s a challenge.

She looks at the floor. “No.”

“Then I can’t expect you to understand. I won’t accept it. Take it away with you.”

“But if I  _ was _ married?” Her head aches and for a moment she thinks she’s only thought it instead of saying it aloud, and she’d continue to do so if Mrs Smollett doesn’t look at her in that fashion.

“I beg your pardon?”

But then she thinks - to Hell with it. To Hell with propriety. What did that ever get her anyway? “If I was married... and my husband had died in such circumstances, I would hope that someone coming to tell me to my face was the least I deserved.” She sits back down, heavily. God, she’s tired. “You’re right. I don’t understand what it is to lose a husband, I don’t think I ever will understand. But I understand a little about life and death, Mrs Smollett. More than a little if I give myself credit,” She looks back at her. ”And I know death has no morals. No principles. So when it comes, you must take back what you can from it - in this case, security. Payment. Well-earned payment. And I’ll tell you one thing more - I understand courage too now, and what it is. The truth is... for all his strictness, Captain Smollett taught me more about courage than anyone I’ve ever met. Now as to the treasure, I will leave it with your butler. Do with it what you wish. Toss it into the sea if you feel so inclined. But it’s too heavy for me to take it any further.” There’s a sudden stinging in her eyes and she presses the heel of her hand to them - oh God,  _ she  _ can’t start weeping now, “I can’t take it with me anymore.”  _ I won’t. _

She takes a moment to compose herself and gets back to her feet, gripped by an urge to leave, to remove herself fully from this place, that she hasn’t felt since the island, “I’ll impose on you no longer.” She says, heading for the door. “I do wish we’d met in better circumstances-”

“Doctor Livesey.”

She pauses in the doorway and braces herself, halted by the call.

A hand is laid on her arm, warily but gently. “Thank you. For coming to tell me in person. It can’t have been easy. But you were right about that, I - I do appreciate that. I don’t think I ever could have forgiven you if you’d sent a letter."

She turns back to Mrs Smollett. “I truly am so sorry. If there is anything more I can do-”

She silences her with the slight raise of her palm, looking just past her now, “I’m sure you’re excellent at what you do, Doctor Livesey. But not even you can raise the dead.”

If it’s meant to be a dismissal then it doesn’t quite work. After everything, Livesey thinks, as the butler sees her back to the street, it feels more like an absolution.

* * *

She has never been so glad to glimpse the sea, where the coast dips in to Black Cove, hemmed with the familiar constellation of lit windows, composing the same patterns in the gathering dusk as she remembers.

She’d been in such a hurry to get in and out again, so focused on returning Jim and getting back to Bath, that she hadn’t taken much notice of her surroundings. Not a thing has changed in her absence, but what had she expected? Wrack and ruin? A revolution? In Black Cove? It’s laughable.

The lane is quiet when she arrives back to her house and she’s glad, in no mood at all to make small talk with any passing neighbour about where she’s been. There’s a strange sense of finality as she reaches the front door, and some relief to see the place still standing. It feels like a very long time ago that she went racing away from it, after her more adventurous friends. Weeds have sprung up by the step, which she absently kicks at as she digs into her pocket for the key.

She hasn’t set foot in here in weeks, the air inside smells stale as she hefts the door open with the dregs of her energy, and- 

There’s the  _ crunch _ of something under her shoe.

One of the window panes has been smashed in - by a storm or a gull or a drunk, she cannot say, but the moonlight catches on the scattered fragments across the floorboards as she inspects it more closely. A rude welcome back to real life, where perhaps nobody will care much for her seasickness, or old ghosts in winding caves.

She crouches and carefully collects the bigger shards, cold as they’re stacked in her palm. One catches on the tip of her finger and she gasps as it bites in, drawing a bright red bead to the surface. She curses and sucks at the cut. 

Maybe this is what coming home really is, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are again. Despite my initial plan for this to be a one part story, the more observant among you may have noticed that we're now going up to five - and that's where I'm planning on stopping. I have one final chapter planned out for this which will (sort of) bring things together and include everything I want to include in this particular work.
> 
> However, that doesn't mean I'm quite done with this fandom! I have some vague ideas for another work (in the same universe as this one), I just need to work out if I can string them together into something vaguely coherent!
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There aren’t quarrels as such - their family has never been one for quarrels - but there are a lot of loaded comments, solemn stares and awkward silences. 
> 
> But she doesn’t care. They can’t stop her, and if they think that they can guilt her out of her ambitions, then they’re wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: The usuals - mentions of blood, minor character death, non-graphic discussion of death, non-graphic discussion of childbirth.
> 
> As always, please forgive any historical fails - if the National Theatre can play fast and loose with accuracy, then so can I.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

She’s seventeen when Robert is killed, in a brawl over his gambling debts, halfway through his studies. The publican and his son carry the body back to the house like a sack of flour and it’s laid out, pale as parchment, on the kitchen table, the blood dried to a tackiness around his torn out throat. She does not swoon as she takes in the detail of the injuries - perhaps the numbing shock protects her.

Her father is never the same again. It’s talked about behind all their backs, as is the nature of the death. The poor, wretched Livesey boy, whose money flowed from his fingers like water and whose death was early and undignified.

She knows well she should mourn her only brother. She dresses the next morning in her black gown and accepts the countless offers of condolences when her parents find themselves overwhelmed. She should mourn him and that should be all her thoughts. But there’s the fact that his books, his notes and now his studies - they’re now all left without their gatekeeper, without anyone to shoo her away when they catch her with one of the scientific volumes. Not that he was ever overly devoted to his studies in life, but now they’re too tempting, too unclaimed for her to ignore.

She’s poured over those books after everyone else has gone to bed, memorising the terms and diagrams by wobbly candlelight. It’s all completely fascinating to her - the science behind how people talk and move and eat. How men and women are powered by more than faith, more than anything breathed into them by some deity -

She has a thought along these lines in church once, before suddenly remembering where she is and glancing guiltily to the rafters. Thankfully she remains entirely un-smote, so wagers she’s gotten away with it this time.

_ What a waste,  _ people say,  _ what a terrible waste. _ A physician was a respectable enough vocation for the Livesey’s only son. His father had hoped it would distract him from dice and cards, to give him something to occupy his mind.

_ What a waste, what a waste - _ she can’t let it all be for nothing, not now.

Robert’s godfather and teacher, Doctor Edward Griffin, arrives to pay his respects. Griffin is polite, yet kind, a rare splash of colour in a house of mourning in his crimson waistcoat. She waits until the right moment to corner him and plead her case - she knows everything Robert knew, maybe even more without suffering from his vices. Her theory is sound, she’s more than willing to learn,  _ teach me in his place, please. _

He turns her down at first (her life will not be easy as it is, what with her brother’s scandal following after her, and he is unwilling to be another architect of her ruin), but she is determined and writes letter after letter to him. 

Her parents are still distracted by their grief when he finally relents, so it’s easy enough to sneak from the house each morning and walk the two miles to Griffin’s house and her new schoolroom. She meets Griffin’s (official) new apprentice, a parson’s son, a lanky creature named James Walker (he treats her with a degree of suspicion for about ten minutes and then seems to forget, drops the ‘Miss’, and calls her by her surname from that moment on) and together they continue from where Robert left off. 

“Even if we do this,” He adds, knowing full well that it is utterly futile in the face of such determination, “It is very likely that you will never - what I mean is, people, the authorities, will not -”

“I know.” She says. “But I can’t simply sit at home and do nothing, can I?” Her mouth is set in a firm line as she looks to the window and adds, almost to herself; “I can be a doctor in all but name. That must be enough.”

Griffin warns her that he will not favour her due to her sex, and he is true to his word. He’s a severe master, filling every hour God sends them and checking with smart, crafty questions whether they have indeed read the texts he’s assigned them. Together they attend talks and demonstrations and Walker sneaks her into lectures in the city with him,  _ this is my sister, she’s visiting me, I can hardly expect her to wait outside alone where any villain might accost her, can I?  _

The fellows on the door sigh and look suffering and for propriety's sake say  _ very well, very well, but sit at the back and keep your head down. _

She spends one day a week with an old midwife and learns the countless ways childbirth can go wrong. It puts her thoroughly off the concept for the rest of her life.

She begs Griffin to take her to the public hangings, to witness how a body operates after the life has left it. He concedes, but leaves the actual going to her and Walker, claiming to be too old and too tired to watch men die for their own folly. The first one gives her bad dreams for a week, but that’s conquered by she and Walker studying the science behind the terrible sights. But still she continues - part in too deep to turn back, part too curious to resist.

(“You do know you couldn’t have saved him?” It comes out of nowhere one morning, when Walker is out of the room and she’s halfway through noting something down.

For a moment, she looks up, perplexed, thrown by the lack of context. “Sorry?”

“Robert. You  _ do _ know there was nothing anyone could have done?”

She never feels smaller than she does at that moment, but she manages to choke out a stammered affirmative, even as her cheeks colour under his scrutiny.

“Good.” He visibly relaxes. “Just needed to check. Start thinking like that and you’ll think yourself to death.”)

In the end it’s Griffin who goes to her father and explains what’s happening. He’s a proper man, a good man, and he won’t lie, even for the benefit of his remarkable student.

There aren’t quarrels as such - their family has never been one for quarrels - but there are a lot of loaded comments, solemn stares and awkward silences. Her mother has a wide range of sighs in her arsenal that can be directly translated into a series of sentiments of disappointment and cold disapproval. But she  _ doesn’t care.  _ They can’t stop her, and if they think that they can guilt her out of her ambitions, then they’re wrong.

* * *

“Why do you wear red?” She asks Griffin one afternoon. They’re slogging through a rather dull theoretical chapter and, in want of distraction, she and Walker are bombarding their master with questions. His contrasting form against the dark wood of his study prompts the thought across her mind. “I think it’s rather bold of you.”

“Practicality.” Griffin declares, retrieving his pipe from the pocket of his rust coloured coat. “And to reassure the patient. A red coat or a black coat, and any splash of blood won’t show up as much. But black is such a melancholy colour - walk into a patient’s house wearing black and he’ll think the undertaker has come for him in anticipation.”

As Griffin’s health worsens, his determination increases and in his heart of hearts, a doctor in all but name is simply not good enough. He sends letters, calls in favours, some money may or may not change hands, and he lives just long enough to see two new names added to the medical register; a Doctor Walker, and a Doctor Livesey.

The legality of the latter is questionable. Her results are not.

* * *

For the next year she takes great amusement in correcting every address of ‘Miss’ to ‘Doctor’. People are surprised, but many of them are too respectable to do more than blink and stutter and contort their speech into correcting themselves. They only permit themselves to whisper after she walks away, when they think she cannot hear them. Walker visits and her mother is intrigued and charming, up until the point where she realises her daughter is not going to marry him.

There’s a wealthy widow who lives just outside the village who calls on her for aching, swollen joints, and sleep that refuses to come. It’s monotonous and bloodless work, but she is hired as a doctor to this woman, so she tolerates the sniping comments the widow spits out about her complexion, her posture, her chosen career.

And things stay like this, right up until the still, moonless night when timid little Mary Davy from the village arrives after dinner (dinner with the Strachans, and their dull, dull son, who she has a sneaking suspicion she may be shoved towards if she doesn’t object quick enough). The ladies have retired to one room, the gentlemen to another, but it’s the room hosting the ladies that Mary comes stumbling into, ushered in by a servant.

“Begging your pardon Mrs Livesey,” She says, blushing deeply under the attention of everyone present, “But my sister - she’s having her baby now, and she needs the doctor to come to our house.”

“Where is Doctor Harrison,” Mrs Livesey asks, “is he indisposed?”

“No, but - please ma’am,” Mary says, looking every inch like she’d welcome the floor swallowing her up, “She - my sister - she - she says she don’t want him - she wants the lady doctor.”

The room is silent, the tension broken only by Mrs Strachan letting out a nervous choke of curious laughter.

Something, some strange feeling overtakes her entire body, a warmth, a jolt of lightning down her arms and into every finger, and it stokes her voice into flight; “I’ll come at once.” She’s on her feet without realising, her mind already racing, what will she need, what might happen, the countless stories of difficult births from her midwife teacher...

“Diana.” Her mother says warningly.

She ignores her, looks at Mary, “Tell your sister that I will come at once.”

Mary bobs a quick curtsey and all but flees from the room.

“Diana,” Her mother’s voice has dropped to a thin hiss, “if you have an ounce of respect for your father and I, if you wish to remain living under this roof, you will sit back down.”

She’s called a third time;  _ “DIANA!”  _ as she leaves the room, but she can’t stop now. She hurries to her room and grabs a shawl and her doctor’s bag. As she comes scurrying back down the stairs her mother is waiting at the bottom, wringing her thin hands. But she’s not angry - she’s not even doing one of her sighs.

“Diana…” She says, a beg biting at the edge of her words, grabbing desperately at her daughter’s arm, “Please…”

In that moment she wishes things had been different, that she’d been born a boy and Robert a girl, that the world could shift and change to accommodate their strange little corner of it, but it can’t and it won’t, so they themselves must shift instead. She extracts herself from her mother’s grip. “I have to. I’m sorry.”

As she hurries down the path to the road, she repeats it in her head, like a spell -  _ do not look back, do not look back. If you look back, you’re lost. _

Mary’s sister is upstairs in the tiny cottage when she arrives, leaning heavily on the door frame, her forehead against the back of her hands. “Oh thank God.” She breathes as they arrive.

“Not God - your Mary’s quick feet. I hear you didn’t want Doctor Harrison?” She bundles up her shawl and hands it to Mary, who is hovering nearby, desperate for employment.

Mary’s sister pulls a face, “Him? He can go whistle, him and his big red face. I don’t want him sticking his mitts where they shouldn’t be.” She frowns, “You’re the one who treats old Lady Marcheford, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“I was her kitchen maid for three years. Something I know about that old bat is that she don’t suffer fools.” She chuckles, “That’s the one thing I ever liked about her.”

The doctor permits herself a laugh before she sends Mary off for water and clean bedding - then there is little else to do but wait, to encourage the sister to her feet to take heavy, staggering steps around the room. They do lap after lap, pausing every so often for the woman to screw up her face and tense and breathe, remember to breathe...

“You got kids, Doctor?”

_ Doctor.  _ She tries not to grin, “No.”

“Well take my advice, don’t bleeding bother. More hurt and trouble than they’re worth-” She breaks off into a long groan of pain. “Oh, it’s coming.”

“You’re doing splendidly.”

“I reckon this one’s a boy.” She forces a smile, “Lazy little toerag, won’t come out until he absolutely has to. His sister were different, she couldn’t flippin’ wait to get started, nearly dropped her out walking back from the market, it came on so sudden.” She glances up nervously, “You don’t mind me sayin’ all this, do you?”

She shakes her head, “Of course not.”

“It’s just you’re a respectable type. Fine dresses and talking posh and all. But I’m glad you’ve come.” The woman adds, gripping her arm as she hobbles over to the bed, “Mary thought you wouldn’t.”

“I’m a doctor,” The novelty still hasn’t worn off, “You called, I answered. It’s our duty. Doctor Harrison would have done the same.”

“Nah. I mean - he’d have come, sure, but it’s different. With you. With women. We’re made of pain. The men, they don’t understand that.” Another wave of agony hits, and she grabs at her hand desperately. “Don’t go - please.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” The doctor reassures her. “Not until the job’s done.”

* * *

It’s almost dawn when she finally does leave. Mary’s sister has been delivered of a boy whose cries fill the cottage with noise and Livesey’s heart with relief. She trudges back through the dim, blue-grey light and in her head she tells him, _Griffin, I did it, and they wanted_ me, _they asked for_ me...

The house is still dark and silent when she gets home. The floorboards creak as she heads to her bedroom, but it’s too late to sleep now. Even as she falls back on the made up bed, fully clothed, her mind still races, exhilarated. It seems clearer now, what must be done.

Griffin has left her a little secret money and she has her equipment. But she can’t leave like this. She’ll need to walk up to the main road and then who knows how much further, and there’s blood on this gown. She sits up sharply, her heart beating fast and knows she must act fast before she loses her nerve.

Quickly, she slides down from the bed, lights a candle and hurries along the corridor, to where all Robert’s things were packed away. They had great intentions, all of them, to sort through them one day, send what was suitable to the poor, but then she had become so wrapped up in her studies and her mother in society and her father in his grief…

Her father. He’s her one regret in all of this.

She finally finds the trunk she’s looking for and flings it open. The light of the candle throws long shadows across the neatly packed clothing. She picks up a shirt (carefully, quietly, as if Robert will suddenly appear from beyond the grave and scold her for going through his belongings) and the smell of him on them brings memories racing back. They’re a few years out of fashion by now, but they’ll do. She grabs a selection of items, bundling them under her arm as she dashes back to her bedroom. She moves quickly, shedding her petticoats and pulling on the garments. They’re a little large for her, but a pin in the waistband should serve for now. Breeches and shirt, a waistcoat hooked over her arms and buttoned with shaking fingers... 

She goes to the mirror, smoothing down the front of her new ensemble. A smile slowly dawns on her face, until she can't stop grinning as she greets her reflection; “Doctor Livesey.” 

* * *

Packed and ready, she steals back down the stairs. The hall is near-pitch black and the stone floor radiates cold, and she has to give herself a rare reminder that ghosts do not exist. She’ll head west, out of the village and up the hill, put as much distance between her and this place as she can, find somewhere to set up practice, it won’t be easy, but - 

“Diana?”

A whisper from the shadows nearly makes her jump out of her skin.

It’s her father. He has not slept (he rarely does these days), he has not even undressed for bed, his shirt crumpled and pulled open at the collar. His face is pale, with shadows under his eyes. “How did it go?” He says, hoarse.

She’s frozen halfway to the door, but she still speaks; “She had a little boy.”

A smile - what passes for a smile on him these days - flickers on his lips, “Good. Good. Healthy?”   
  
“As far as I could see.”

He nods, “I’m glad. Your mother,” He says suddenly, “She’s not happy with you.”

She looks at her feet. “I know.”

“Nor are the Strachans.” He crosses the hallway at a slow, but steady pace and settles himself with a quiet groan on the third step of the stairs, patting the space next to him in invitation, “But I have a suspicion that you’re not so bothered by that.”

She perches beside him, looking down at her hands, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Her father says, gazing off into the darkness, “They’re an insufferable family. If you had married their drip of a son we’d have to see them all the time, and I can’t think of anything worse.”

She stares at him, trying not to smirk, “Father!”

“Oh don’t ‘father’ me,” He creaks with a sigh, “That’s one of the few good things about getting old, you can say what you like and not care a whit. You’ve got all that to look forward to.” He looks back at her, his eyes heavy and solemn, “Are you leaving us then?”

“I have to go.” She says. “Even if I stay I’ll never be able to be what you want me to be.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He says with feeling, “Not one bit. You’re my daughter, no matter what you do, and that’s all I want.”

“But it would be easier if I left. For Mother, at least.”

His shoulders sink, “It would be neater, you’re right about that. But… more importantly... I think you would be happier. You can’t tell me I’m wrong about that, Diana.”

Her silence is probably more of an answer than she could ever put into words. So her father makes a little ‘harrumph’ of triumph and gets to his feet and she follows him to the door. The sun is almost fully risen now, and as she opens the door a thin beam of sunlight falls between the two of them.

She turns to look at her father one more time, and in this light he somehow looks more alive than he has in years.

He rubs her arm, “You know, you don’t look a scrap like him, even in his clothes. You’re your own person, you always have been. That’s very reassuring to know.”

Unable to stop herself, she throws her arms around his neck, “I’ll write as soon as I find somewhere to stay.”

“Go.” He says, herding her gently towards the door, “With all the best of luck. I’ll be able to tell people that we have a doctor in the family. Oh, and - come back for Christmas, won’t you?” He says as she steps outside, “I think even your mother may have calmed down a little by then.”

* * *

_ Did you hear about the Liveseys? Their son was killed in a tavern fight and their daughter ran off, never to be seen again. _

Roughly thirty miles down the coast lies the town of Black Cove - she knows of it more by reputation than experience, but her father has had dealings with the magistrate there (he came to the house once while she was still studying, and when he learnt of her chosen field declared it to be ‘quite splendid’). It’s small, but established, far enough away, and she knows it’s in need of a doctor, so that’s where she goes.

She’s been there nearly eleven years, and Robert Livesey is all but forgotten by the world, when she plunges the syringe into Billy Bones and wrenches him back from the brink.


End file.
